


The Speed Of Things

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11124981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Arthur thinks about the passing of time, and his choices, and whether they've served him.All in the terror of the momentThat pounces as it open swingsA line of dots illuminatedFor I have seen the speed of things- The Speed of Things by Robyn Hitchcock





	The Speed Of Things

 

 _I fed you in your chair this morning_  
_You made a mess of everything_  
_By afternoon you drove a sports car_  
_You were driving at the speed of things._

 

Phillipa rolled her eyes at Arthur’s third reminder to check her blind spot, and he had to smile at the knowledge that she had learned her eye-roll from the best in the business. That was hardly the only thing she’d learned from Arthur over the years. He had taught her to eat with her own utensils, tie her shoes, take down an opponent with a well-placed kick to the ribs, count to one hundred in three different languages, and now—well, this.

She pressed too hard on the brake and they both pitched forward, Arthur putting his hand on the dashboard to catch himself. “You’ll listen to me next time, won’t you?” he said, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, Uncle,” she intoned sarcastically as she craned her neck to look to her left then eased off the brake and onto the gas again. Seeing that the road was clear and there were no turns to make nor any other cars on the road, Arthur leaned back in his seat. He really ought to make Cobb buy a car and not use Lyft all the time—it shouldn’t be incumbent on him to risk his Aston Martin simply because he happened to be the only one in the family who owned a car.

He turned to watch Phillipa as she scanned the road ahead for any potential issues, seeing in her vigilance his own and knowing that he would risk much more than his car to ensure her well-being. The road curved through the hills, clear and bright, and Phillipa’s foot went heavy on the accelerator. She was handling the Aston Martin surprisingly well, and Arthur felt that old familiar clenching sensation in his chest. He missed her baby curls, her pudgy hands, her piping little girl voice with all its hilarious mispronunciations. He missed her obsessively drawing the Chartres Cathedral over and over again, he missed her braces and her emo-band phase and reading all the Harry Potter books aloud to her.

Arthur’s eyes glazed over as the dotted line down the middle of the road blurred with speed.

Ten years since inception. It was hard to believe, until he looked at Phillipa’s tall and graceful form, James’ broadening shoulders—until he looked in the mirror at his own receding hairline and faint crow’s feet.

Until he thought about how he and Eames had used to be, and how they were, now.

 

 _You held my hand when I was crying_  
_You were allergic to bee stings_  
_I threw some earth onto your coffin_  
_And thought about the speed of things_

 

Mal’s funeral was simple, stark and poorly attended. It was just Cobb, the children, Mal’s parents and Arthur. And Eames.

Arthur stood at a faint remove from the family, which left him no one to stand near except his colleague. He wished Eames hadn’t come. It wasn’t clear to Arthur how well Eames had known Mal and he found himself irritated and off-put. Arthur attempted to contain his reaction; it wasn’t fair. Mal and Cobb had been prominent in dreamshare, respected and valued, if not loved by all. It made sense that Eames would be here, viewed that way.

But having Eames near him while he felt so vulnerable in his grief—it was unnerving. Yet another thing to manage.

Mal had been more important to Arthur than he’d been able to admit to himself. Indeed, she had been one of the loveliest people he’d ever known, compassionate and insightful. Completely present in a way that most people were unwilling or unable to be.

Eames sidled closer to Arthur to make room for the priest to walk through to the head of the casket and their hands brushed together. Then Eames turned his palm, as if to hold his hand, and Arthur pulled away.

A powerful sensation of deja vu hit him—the day that Mal had found Arthur crying in the bathroom of the house she and Cobb lived in. He’d just found out that his father had passed and had been unable to bottle up his reaction.

Mal hadn’t given him the courtesy of believing his excuse (sudden attack of stomach flu), and he was forever grateful for it. His initial reaction was to recoil from her hand reaching out for his, but she took it firmly and held it for a while, before putting her arm around his torso and bringing his head to her shoulder. He had sobbed against her soft hair, the scent of her perfume comforting him, reminding him of beauty and grace and life. She had tacitly given him permission to let it all out, and as he cried she’d spoken quietly, a litany of comforting nonsense, confidences and miscellany, which is how he’d learned that she was dyslexic and also allergic to bee stings.

As they lowered the coffin into the place prepared for it, Arthur joined the family in throwing earth onto its gleaming surface. He felt wetness spill down his cheek and didn’t bother to wipe at it. Let these tears be a gift to her, he thought rebelliously, not willing to allow his usual facade to take precedence over giving his friend her due.

Eames’ hand brushed against his again and this time Arthur turned his palm and entwined their fingers. He felt a squeeze and returned it. Looking back, he realized that the gentle solidity of Eames beside him was the only warmth he felt that day.

 

 _I kissed you by the clear, cold river_  
_I felt like I was growing wings_  
_But I grew horns and found another_  
_Oh, a girl to share the speed of things_

 

After the Fischer job, Arthur had taken a long break, wandering the continent of North America from stem to stern. The places he found himself exploring weren’t glamorous; their main attraction was that they were locations to which the fractious world of dreamshare was unlikely to come calling. His travels were a necessary distraction from the fact that one stage of his life had come to an end, but he wasn’t sure what came next.

During a month spent near the Adirondacks, he’d gotten a text from Eames, looking for a place to lay low. His job in New York City had gone awry and he needed safe harbor until things blew over. A wave of unintelligible emotions swept through Arthur as he paused to ponder his response. Their interactions during the Fischer job had led him to believe that he and Eames were on a path towards something—friendship perhaps. Or perhaps something else, something a little beyond friendship.

He still remembered how off balance he’d felt after that infernal “kick” demonstrations—staring at Eames’ sphinx-like smile, trying to determine what, if anything, lay behind it.

Eventually he texted back, an invitation, and Eames arrived looking much the worse for wear and ludicrously fetching all the same. Something in Arthur inevitably responded to Eames’ pathetic appearance—roughed up and in need of a helping hand.

Once he’d settled in a bit, they took a walk down by the creek that ran through the parcel of land behind Arthur’s remote cottage. As they walked, Eames brushed his hand against Arthur’s again, over and over until finally, blushing furiously, Arthur had turned his palm and grabbed Eames’ hand in his own, lacing their fingers together. After a silent quarter mile or so, Eames had pulled Arthur around to face him, to face the thing that they’d been carefully navigating around for an uncertain but nontrivial amount of time.

Arthur felt it coming with every fibre of his being, letting his eyes slide closed on the sight of Eames’ lovely mouth descending on his.

Three weeks later, Arthur watched him walk away, heading for the train station, no promises made, no declarations returned.

He met up with Ariadne in Amsterdam a month later. Her kiss came with strings and Arthur wrapped himself up in them, for some reason unafraid to move into the future with her.

 

 _All in the terror of the moment_  
_That pounces as it open swings_  
_A line of dots illuminated_  
_For I have seen the speed of things_

 

“That’s great,” Arthur said into the phone as he continued to chop ingredients for the coq au vin. “Yeah, I’m sure he did,” he laughed as Phillipa described Cobb’s reaction to being driven down the 101 by his sixteen-year-old newly-licensed daughter.

“Tell your dad I said hey. Love you, too.”

He put the phone down to focus on dinner prep—Ariadne was coming over to listen to Arthur process his recent break-up with Stefan, and as Arthur knew it would be an awkward conversation, he didn’t want the food to suck on top of everything else. He’d done a lot of thinking about his recent relationships and had come to some painful conclusions about himself. He needed feedback from Ariadne—patient, caring Ariadne—but more than that, he had a lot to apologize for.

Things hadn’t worked out with Stefan for approximately the same reason that he and Ariadne had called it quits after a comfortable and amiable two years. There was much to be said for comfort and companionship, especially in a world as lonely and bleak as dreamshare could be. Arthur had congratulated himself on being able to take the risk of a long-term relationship with Ariadne, and then Stefan.

The thing was, it turned out not to be such a risk when there wasn’t much at stake. He checked to see if the cast-iron pan was hot enough, then went to get the butter.

Over the years, he hadn’t let himself think too closely on what exactly had happened, those weeks in the Adirondacks with Eames. He no longer remembered what excuse Eames had given as he left the cottage, his mouth pressed tight against unspoken words—whether of hurt or recrimination, Arthur didn’t know and never found out. He let him go with a feeble falsity, an attempt to minimize the importance of what had happened.

Arthur had watched Eames slip from his grasp almost with a feeling of relief. It sickened him, now, to think of it.

Looking back, it was obvious that Eames terrified him. Change terrified him, and change was a forger’s stock in trade. Mercurial, unpredictable Eames, practically a living embodiment of chaos—why did Arthur’s attraction to him have to be so tenacious? Unchangeable, one might even say, he thought wryly to himself.

More terrifying than change, though, was the risk of being known. Eames had always seen too much, effortlessly. There had been a part of Arthur that longed for it, the intimacy of having your needs met without needing to state them, but there had been a part that recoiled from it, too. A part that had feared being invaded, conquered. The phrase “knows you better than you know yourself” had always sent chills down his spine.

Arthur watched the butter melt and begin to simmer, then stirred the onions in slowly. After spending years halfheartedly trying to build something with people who cared for him but were content to remain on the surface of things, being known, being _seen_ , sounded good. Necessary, even. He poured some white wine in for the reduction.

His relationship with Eames had never quite recovered from their near miss, not really. They hadn’t taken any jobs together for a long time afterwards. The first job after that hiatus was extremely uncomfortable—Arthur had already been with Ariadne for a year at that point and Eames’ refusal to inquire about it was like a brick wall between them.

Over time, they’d found a way to interact more normally. Gradually, Eames had started looking Arthur in the eye again, had even started teasing him. They were cordial, even warm at times, and though they never acted like friends, the pervasive, persistent sense developed that, on a deep wordless level, they were family. Like siblings, who could go months without speaking but would donate a kidney for the other if called to do so.

Or so Arthur assumed, not having siblings himself. Though presumably, siblings didn’t have the kind of dreams about each other that Arthur had had about Eames. Dreams you cling to as they evaporate, dreams that follow you around all day, coloring your perception of everything.

Two weeks ago, in the wake of such a dream, he’d gotten out of bed with the unshakable need to resolve things with Stefan. To clear the decks. Their break-up had been neat, almost surgically precise and painless. At the time, he hadn't known exactly why, but it was becoming clear to him now. He turned up the heat a bit and took a sip of wine.

The dream had merely been a final straw. A few months ago, just weeks after his avuncular driving lessons, he’d gotten a call from Preet, inquiring if he was free for a rather complicated job in Rome. He had not been able to stop himself asking if Eames was going to be on the job, and when he had learned that he was, he had then been unable to prevent himself accepting on the spot.

He’d known then that his days with Stefan were numbered, he just hadn’t admitted it to himself.

The job had been as complicated as advertised and he and Eames hadn’t had a lot of time together. But Arthur had caught his gaze at odd moments, his expression not quite unreadable. There had been many moments, gradually building in frequency, of not-strictly-necessary closeness; held doors, hand brushing the small of his back, standing so that their arms brushed against each other.

Arthur had brought himself off every night to the thought of Eames’ mouth, his eyes. His hands, holding Arthur’s own, as he pressed inside and whispered unintelligible endearments, like incantations. His forgiveness, pouring out unspoken but palpable in every gesture.

Forgiveness he had yet to earn.

It wasn’t Ariadne he needed to apologize to. Arthur put down his wine and picked up his phone.

 

  
As they had come out of the dream, while the mark was still safely sedated and Arthur was coiling up the PASIV lines as he always did, Eames had sidled up to him and slipped something in his pants pocket. Arthur just had time to inhale the thick masculine scent of him as he slipped away and out the door. By the time the PASIV was squared away and the other team members debriefed, Eames was long gone.

At the airport, Arthur had slid his hand into his pocket and felt a small piece of paper. There was only one line of writing on it.

 

  
The piece of paper was still in his pocket as Arthur stepped back from the stove, watching the onions pass the point of perfectly caramelized and blacken into inedibility while he texted Ariadne. (She would understand, he hoped, why he needed to cancel dinner.)

It was in his pocket as he scraped the onions into the garbage disposal.

It was in his pocket as he flipped open his laptop and found a flight leaving that night as he threw some things into a suitcase, as he did a final check for burners left on, sink faucets running. He stood at the door, a strange feeling, a mix of fear and relief, washing over him at the thought that he might never see the place again.

That was alright.

He looked down at the address on the slip of paper, then opened the door and walked through.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to katy_the_reader and aja for multiple rounds of beta/input.
> 
> This fic is based on a song by Robyn Hitchcock. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6KkDRQMBR4


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